


Of Toy Trains and Stolen Bicycles

by earthseed_fic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseed_fic/pseuds/earthseed_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil tries to give Clint new holiday memories to make up for his crappy ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Toy Trains and Stolen Bicycles

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #114: To his surprise, Phil discovers - over the years of random comments - that Clint actually has a lot of fond holiday memories. Some of which absolutely horrify Phil.
> 
> I don't know if I quite did the prompt justice. I hope the original prompter enjoys this.
> 
> Thanks so much to Selori for the beta and the patience! Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.

As so often happened when a god, a recently unfrozen super-soldier, a billionaire genius playboy philanthropist, a giant rage monster, a deadly formerly-Russian spy, and a carny-turned-superhero got together, the evening had turned to storytelling. Or, as Pepper called it, "tall tales and lies". Christmas was no exception.

The Avengers and their significant others had settled in the media room on the common floor of the Tower. They'd put in an appearance at the S.H.I.E.L.D. holiday party (where everyone was on their best behavior, even Tony) and were now enjoying a reward of well-aged scotch and good company. Steve had sparked the current round of stories by asking Thor about winter holidays on Asgard. Thor spoke of the great feasts of Jul, which reminded Tony of the amazing hot chocolate his nanny used to make for him on Christmas Eve, which in turn reminded Jane of leaving bagels and Gatorade for Santa ("Carbs and electrolytes. It's a long trip around the globe."), which then got them all reminiscing about the best Christmas gifts they'd each received.

And that's when the sinking feeling started in Phil's gut. Because Clint was telling a story, a truly hysterical story, of being ten and orphaned, tagging along behind his big brother and breaking into a house to steal brand-new bicycles they'd spied in a suburban garage earlier that day. While the "good kids" slept safe and sound in their beds, dreaming of Santa and being watched over by loving parents, Clint and Barney rode with abandon for miles, stopping finally to scam donuts from an exhausted, but sympathetic, waitress at an all-night diner.

"It was Christmas Eve, y'know? Everyone wants to be nice to kids on Christmas. Even ones obviously up to no good," he said. The cops finally showed up ("Yes, we did get nabbed by donut-eating cops. Save it, Tony.") and took them back to the orphanage, where they were made to scrub floors while the other kids slept and dreamt of homes and parents.

"We were laughing so hard," Clint said, lost in the memory of that night. "We were making a huge mess with the soapy water and not at all thinking about the 'grave sin of theft.' The nuns eventually just sent us to bed." 

Everyone was silent for a moment, and Clint looked around the room in confusion. "What?"

"So your best Christmas present ever," Jane said slowly, as if she were breaking bad news, "was a stolen bike you didn't even get to keep."

Phil knew how often Clint had heard exactly that tone from well-meaning people, and he knew just how much Clint hated that tone. The one that pitied him, even judged him, for the things he didn't have, for all the moments he never got to experience. Phil braced himself for the patented Barton snark, finely honed to deflect attention from his less-than-ideal childhood, designed deliberately to let well-meaning friends off the hook for hurts long-past.

Instead of snark, though, Clint smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Yeah, I know what it sounds like. But other than summers, Christmas was the time of year when I got my brother to myself. Even before our parents died. We were out of school and we had just days and days and days of getting into as much trouble as we could." He glanced at Thor and then down at his glass of scotch. "He wasn't always anger and bad choices. Sometimes… sometimes, he was just my brother." 

"To lost brothers and better days," Thor said, raising his glass.

"Here's hoping neither of your brothers shows up for a good long while," Tony replied. Pepper elbowed him sharply. "Ow! What? Don't tell me you weren't all thinking the same thing."

Clint laughed and raised his own glass. "Cheers." And just like that the awkwardness was gone, the Christmas spirit was restored, and Bruce and Tony got into an argument about the best propulsion source for Santa's sleigh (flying reindeer excluded, much to Thor's chagrin). 

Phil took the opportunity to slip quietly from the room. Because the sinking feeling from earlier? Was now a horrible, painful knot. He couldn't believe he'd gotten things so wrong.

To be fair, though, he'd never heard any of Clint's Christmas stories in context. Clint spent one Christmas Eve in the emergency room with a broken arm, courtesy of his father. That story Phil heard on a medevac over the Philippines. Clint and the other operatives were trading stories about their first major injuries to distract themselves from the cuts and bruises and worse sustained on a mission gone wrong. Trapped in an abandoned safe house in Alaska, Phil heard about the Christmas Trickshot wouldn't let Clint eat until he'd killed an actual reindeer with this bow. He'd been 15 and had only ever shot at targets. And then there was Clint's first Christmas with S.H.I.E.L.D., which he spent alone, in his bunk, reading Vonnegut and tending to his bow. Phil overheard that story – Clint was telling new recruit Grant Ward about life in a "shady government agency."

Phil had always imagined that Clint missed out on a real Christmas all those years. And, yes, he imagined that he would be the one to finally introduce him to the joys of the season. But now, listening to him talk about Barney, watching him fondly recall a memory the others were inclined to read as tragic – well, Phil felt like an ass.

But he could fix this. If could get to their rooms before–

"Hey." 

Phil had made it as far as the elevators. You really couldn't slip out of a room full of superheroes. "Hey."

"Are you okay? Do you need to rest?" It'd been over a year since Loki, and Clint was still so gentle with him. It made Phil's heart ache a little.

"I'm fine. I'm just going to go up and lie down for a bit."

"I'll come with you." He reached around Phil and pushed the call button. 

"You don't have to cut your night short on my account. I'll be okay."

Clint snorted. "Jane's gotten out her notebook and they're sketching schematics of Santa's sleigh. Even Steve's in on it. I think I'm done for the night." He wrapped his arms around Phil's waist. "Besides, cuddling with you is, like, my second favorite activity."

Phil chuckled as he allowed himself to be pulled into the open elevator. "Your second favorite?"

"Yep," Clint said. "If we could cuddle _while_ I did target practice on the range? We'd be golden."

Phil laughed and let himself revel in the feel of Clint pressed up against him, nuzzling his neck, sliding his hand underneath his sweater. It was still hard for Phil to believe that they were both here, alive and whole and together. It's more than he'd ever dared hope for. But then the elevator doors opened on their floor and Phil was reminded of his current problem.

"I need to tell you something," he said, pulling away from Clint.

Clint's whole body language changed, from relaxed and content to taut and alert, in seconds. "What is it?"

"You know I love you, right?" Phil started.

"Nothing good ever comes after someone says that." 

"I love you," Phil repeated, hating the way Clint was starting to shut down. "And I wanted our first real Christmas together to be perfect."

"Holding me hostage on our elevator with cryptic apologies is maybe not the best plan," Clint said. Phil could tell he was trying to keep his tone light, but there was no humor in his eyes at all.

Phil scrubbed his hand over his face and tried again. "I got you something. For Christmas. I got it when I thought you needed me to replace your crappy holiday memories with new ones. But your holidays weren't crappy--"

"No, they were pretty crappy," Clint said with a small smile. "But they were mine, you know?" He looked less like he needed to escape and more like he wanted to understand. "What did you do? It can't be that bad."

Without another word Phil led Clint through their foyer into their living room. Where they were greeted by a seven-foot Christmas tree with all the trimmings, their windows framed by white, twinkling lights, and Bing Crosby crooning softly on their sound system. It was the train, though, that got Clint's attention.

"What did you do?" he repeated. He sat down on the floor and watched as the vintage Lionel train went round and around the tree.

Phil sat next to him, feeling like a jackass, but unable to stop himself from needing to touch. "You saw one that time in Memphis, remember? You said you never got to have one as a kid. And that just broke my heart. I wanted you to have it, to have the memory of a Christmas with a train under the tree." Phil was rambling now. He couldn't stop. "I thought all your memories were bad ones. But now I know they aren't and I feel like an jerk. Because I thought I would teach you all my holiday traditions and then we'd get to teach them to our kids. But, of course, you have your own traditions and memories and it was presump--"

"Kids?" Clint turned his wide-eyed gaze to Phil, the train forgotten.

Phil blushed bright red. "That's not--. Okay, obviously I--. I mean, yes, I've thought about kids." Clint was pulling him closer, until he was practically sitting his lap. "But that's ridiculous." Clint was kissing him now. On his nose. "Our jobs are awful. " And on his cheeks. Phil continued to speak, despite the distractions. "And I'm old." A kiss to his forehead and Phil tried not to hope. "We live with Stark, for god's sake." The kiss to his throat was interrupted by Clint's laughter. "You probably don't even want kids." 

"Stop." 

"I'm sorry," Phil said. And he truly was.

"You're amazing." And damned if Clint didn't look like he actually meant it.

"Clint--"

"This is amazing," Clint said, gesturing at it all. "The tree and the train. The fact that after everything," he put his hand on Phil's chest, right over the scar beneath his sweater, "after everything, you still want all of this. With me."

"It's been a long time since I've wanted anything else," Phil replied quietly, trying hard to make Clint hear just how much he meant it.

Clint answered him with a kiss _this close_ to being inappropriate, considering the fact that Mahalia Jackson was now singing "Silent Night" and a toy train was whistling in the background.

"Thank you," Clint said, when they finally came up for air.

"I'm sorry it's not a stolen bicycle," Phil replied before he realized it might be way too soon for the joke.

Clint's loud laugh told him it wasn't. "I happen to know of a fleet of really expensive sports cars that would be loads more fun to steal."


End file.
